


Duty

by xogillete



Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1936023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xogillete/pseuds/xogillete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows better. He knows his place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duty

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the jazz age, during Malory and Woodhouse's (somewhat) younger years.

She's laid on the couch for a good few hours now. She's got her feet propped up on the armrests, one hand over her stomach with a glass in the grasp, the other over her warm forehead. Not the most flattering position for a lady in an evening gown, but Malory makes it work. She always does. As relaxed as she's portrayed herself to be, her refusal to eat dinner, the impatient click of her heels as she roamed through house, tells her valet otherwise.

Woodhouse lingers in the kitchen, poking his head every now and again to make sure her glass is still full. Soon enough, he's done with his remaining chores, and makes his way into the living room to stand by the fireplace across from her. He's brought another glass identical to hers and pretends to wipe it clean. It's spotless already, but he's aware that on some nights, Malory can't control herself, and will tend to get a little restless with furniture and the like. First it's a speech, then a glass, then it's a mirror, maybe a few picture frames. It ends up with her in the restroom, her head hovering above the toilet seat, wiping vomit on the back of a satin glove. He has no idea what triggers these moments of anger. He has little idea what to do, other than pick up after her drunk mess. He doesn't see a need to question it. He has no right to. She always seems to recover from whatever it was the following morning, anyway.

“Woodhouse.”

Her voice is firm. He pauses from drying and slowly raises his gaze in her direction. She's turned on her side now, facing him. The cream colored masterpiece she's adorned in embraces her figure in the most tantalizing fashion. Her once tight curls fall loosely over her shoulders, and the deep v-cut she's always been fond of should leave little to the imagination, but he's almost lost in unforgivable thoughts. “Mum?”

“Take me to bed.”

She's asked this before, but it's taken him aback each time. “...Pardon?”

Her eyes narrow. She repeats every word, with a tone so sharp it could slit his throat. _“Take me to bed, Woodhouse.”_

He will do what he's asked and nothing less. Every decision made in this household is completely up to her. Every choice he makes depends on her approval. If she needs him to cradle her into her chambers, he will do so. If she requires assistance in dressing into her sleep attire, he will aid her. If she yearns for someone to make up for the man who failed to satisfy her hours before, he will tend to her. And even if she simply seeks someone to tease into oblivion, a man to tempt until he is broken, Woodhouse will also oblige, because he knows better. He knows his place, and he's grown very fond of the position.

“Yes, mum.”

 


End file.
